


And How We Lived

by shakespearefett



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Battle, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, King Alistair is a duty-bound tit, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearefett/pseuds/shakespearefett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A closer look at the final Battle of Denerim.  Warden Rosamund Amell and Alistair, soon to be King of Ferelden, and the rather fraught moments they share in the days leading up to the end of the Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And How We Lived

The attack began at dawn, and her little squad had been cutting a swath through the darkspawn since they entered the city.  Rose felt drained, mechanical, each creature she slew spawned a dozen more.  Black blood stained her robes, coated her skin, and the stench filled her nostrils.  She could hardly recognize Zevran and Oghren, they were so covered in gore, and Alistair...  Well, drenched in filth and blood or not, she would know him anywhere.  Best not to think of that now she told herself, slinging a fire bolt at a charging genlock.  Any thought of that man was painful, heartbreaking distraction.

They moved forward in their standard formation, the two warriors meeting the brunt of the attack, Zevran dancing about to attack from behind wherever he could, and Rosamund herself a short distance behind them throwing fire and lightning at the beasts and casting healing magic as it became necessary.  Zevran and Oghren flung insults and challenges back and forth as they cut down the horde, and didn't seem to notice the silence of their Warden companions.  Alistair cut through one foe after another, grim determination written in the lines of his face, a single-minded focus on the darkspawn before him, resolutely not looking in her direction.  For her part, Rosamund was so caught up in her own thoughts, and in keeping an eye on Alistair, that she didn't see the ogre as it hurtled around the corner of Goldanna's house in the Denerim marketplace.  The monster barreled into her and flung her to the ground.  Her head spun and her whole body contorted with the pain of being struck with one ton of darkspawn.

She heard her name screamed and suddenly there was Alistair standing above her bellowing back at the ogre.  Hope flared to life in her as he drove the beast backward.  Stiff and slow, she climbed to her feet, cradling her bruised ribs as she watched Alistair take down the ogre.  Zevran darted in to help finish the creature and in moments the marketplace was quiet - or at least quieter than it had been.  Sounds of the battle that shook the entire city carried from other quarters, but their own little section was still for now.

Alistair approached, concern etched across his handsome face.  "Are you all right?"  He reached out a hand as if to grasp her arm, but he stopped himself halfway.  Recollection dawned in his eyes - he wasn't supposed to care so much, and he wasn't allowed to touch any longer.  His face, usually so open to her, shuttered and he shifted his gaze to the ogre's corpse.

"I'll be fine," she replied, her voice hoarse and shaking.  She looked away and took a step back, the pain of his hesitation worse than the attack she had just suffered.

Every time he said something the memories came rushing back, their bright, shining moment of victory tarnished by his sense of duty reasserting itself as soon as they were alone.

 

*** _Before_ ***

 

The Landsmeet had ended, Eamon was jubilant, Loghain slain by Warden Rosamund Amell.  Alistair was to be King of Ferelden and wed to a vastly disappointed Anora.  It seemed all their plans had come to fruition.  They entered the estate, Eamon's attendants chattering animatedly around them.  She felt herself smiling, glad to have the politics settled and the battle with their true enemy, the darkspawn, the only matter to come.  Alistair, uncharacteristically silent, hung back from the group, a frown darkening his face.

"My friends," said Eamon, "today is a great day, and we must celebrate the victory, however brief a respite it may be.  A feast shall be prepared and we shall enjoy it before traveling to Redcliffe in the morning!"

The assembled guests of the Arl raised a cheer, all except Alistair who had drifted to the back of the crowd, looking uncomfortably thoughtful.  Rose wanted nothing more than to sweep Alistair away to the comfortable suite Eamon had given him and celebrate in an appropriate fashion.  She approached him to suggest this very thing, but instead of smiling at her he looked sad.

"There you are.  Can we talk for a moment?"  His voice was low, serious, and she felt her stomach knot, though she could think of no reason for trepidation.

"Of course, what's the matter?"  He took her hand and led her to the study.  They were alone in the dark room, nothing but books and the fire to see them.  She moved close to him to touch his face, kiss him perhaps, but he stepped back from her embrace, his face somber.

"Alistair?  What - "

"You actually did it.  You and Eamon, you made me king.  You're going to make me marry _that woman_.  Maker, she terrifies me.  Wouldn't be surprised if she kills me in my sleep just so she can have the crown for herself."  He wrapped his arms around himself, his chin to his chest, not meeting her eyes.

His voice was so bleak she couldn't help but laugh a little at him.  "She's not that bad, Alistair.  She's a good queen, she just needs a strong king with a strong claim to the throne beside her.  Don't you see, this keeps Ferelden from civil war, and gets us the armies we need to turn back The Blight."  She moved closer to him and took his hand, his callouses and scars as familiar to her fingers as her own.  "And you will be a great king.  You are a good man, and the bravest man I've ever known, and you love Ferelden."

"I...I don't know what to say.  I don't deserve the faith you have in me."  He sighed, a weary sound that cut through her, and he stepped away again, pulling his hands from her grasp.  "If I'm to be king, I have to do my duty.  I'll be married, I'll have to be faithful.  That means you and I...well, we...we can't be you and I anymore.”  She opened her mouth to protest, and he held up a hand, forestalling any arguments.  “They'll expect me to have an heir, and I won't be a Warden anymore, and I can't be near you knowing every day you're there and we can't be together.  If I see you, I'll want you, and I won't be able to have you.  It isn’t fair to Anora, and it’s not good for Ferelden."  His shoulders sagged and he released a defeated breath as he lifted his gaze to hers.  "It's better this way.  Better if we just stop, now, since my future seems to be set for me.  I love you too much to hide what I feel, and a king's loyalty cannot be divided."

Rosamund stilled, her whole body locking into place to keep any stray movement from betraying her feelings.  Her breath slowed, her heart seemed to stop, her mind ground to a halt and she couldn't even blink and she stared at Alistair's resolute face.  Finally she realized he was waiting for her to say something, but what could she possibly say to him after that?  After everything they had endured and experienced together, to end things so abruptly.  She felt like she was outside of herself, watching, screaming at herself to fight, to argue, but unable to affect any change.  "What…I don’t…what is that supposed to mean?" she began, her voice barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Rose, I am!" he cried, clenching his fists, reaching toward her and then dropping his arms to his sides.  His voice broke as he continued, "If I were just a Warden, just a man, _nothing_ could ever keep me from you.  But I'm not a Warden anymore.  I'm a king.  _You_ made me a king, you and Eamon."  His voice turned accusatory, hurtful now, his warm brown eyes never wavering from her face.  "I have responsibilities.  I can't betray the woman I'm to marry with the woman I love.  It's not fair to any of us.  I need you to understand this."

Her skin went cold, the fury in his eyes unnerving her, like she was looking at a stranger.  How could she have misjudged so completely?  Were her morals so lax, or did she know him so little, to think that a royal marriage would be no impediment to their love?  Perhaps she had driven him past what he could bear, and this was the only way he could respond, by tormenting her as well.  Perhaps he felt he must cause her some form of pain to endure the resentment he felt at having his future stolen so completely from him.  He had never been angry with her before, and she knew she was seeing a side of him that would likely become all too familiar when he was ruling the country.  All she knew for certain was that in a single moment, her heart had shattered into countless, bleeding shards and had stolen all her breath, all her will, everything.  The man she loved more than anything was now a remote and furious stranger standing across the room; it might as well be a thousand miles away, for how well she could reach him now.

Again, he awaited her response.  Somewhere, somehow, she found that steely resolve that had served her so well in the Circle.  In the voice she had honed on Templar initiates eager to abuse their new position, she replied, "I understand, and I beg your pardon for presuming you might be able to do anything other than the _right thing_.  Consider our relationship terminated.  You have a duty, as do I, and when the Archdemon is defeated our association can end entirely."  She dropped a low curtsy to him and said, "Good day, my King."  She rose and turned, not meeting his eyes, and strode from the room, her shoulders square and her pace steady.  Inside, though, a storm of roiling misery threatened to bring her to her knees, demanding that she release everything she was feeling.

Around her, the sounds of revelry carried through the halls of the Arl's estate, echoing off the stone walls, but she was ice, inside and out, and nothing could touch her.  She walked very deliberately through the halls to her chambers, her spine straight and chin high.  Inside the room, she sealed the door with a glyph and sat on her bed, the silk coverlet rustling against the wool of her robes.  She drew a deep, shuddering breath into her lungs, closed her eyes, and collapsed into great, wracking sobs that stole her breath away.

***

The journey to Redcliffe the next morning had been nearly unendurable.  Her eyes were red and swollen and her head felt full of wool.  Had she slept at all during the night?  She could not recall, nor did she think the answer mattered very much.  What could sleep do for desolation of the acutest sort?  The sun shone brightly, birds sang all around, heralding the spring, and she wanted nothing more than to blast the lot of them with a fiery inferno; it would have only intensified her headache, but at least they wouldn't be so bloody cheerful.  As the de facto leader of the Grey Warden forces, she was obliged to ride at the head of the column with Arl Eamon, Bann Tegan, and the newly appointed King of Ferelden.  Somewhere in her miserable reverie she reflected that the human constitution must be truly remarkable for a woman to be able to endure so much pain on so many levels and yet continue onward as if nothing was wrong with her.  Alistair wouldn't even look at her, let alone speak to her.  Riordan rode between them, detailing various pieces of Warden lore to aid in their upcoming fight, seemingly oblivious to the tense discomfort of his companions.  She did her best to listen, but if she were honest she would have to admit she only heard one word in ten at best.  Alistair, surprisingly, asked intelligent questions about troop movements and strategy, and Riordan seemed to accept that she had nothing to add to the conversation.  A sheltered Circle mage would have little to offer to military matters, after all, she mused.

It seemed that the fates or the Maker or whomever controlled her destiny had a twisted sense of humor.  The moment they arrived at Redcliffe they learned from an out-of-breath runner that they would simply have to turn around and return to Denerim.  Somehow in their grand march from the city, they had crossed proverbial paths with the Darkspawn Horde as it came up from the South and they traveled toward the Wilds.  After receiving this alarming news, Eamon's attendants and advisors leapt into action, preparing the armies of elves and dwarves that had been gathering at Redcliffe to march at dawn the next day.  There were to be no banquets or celebrations this night.  Rosamund and her rag-tag band of followers were left to their own devices, to prepare as they saw fit.

For the Wardens in the group, it was to be a night of revelations at Redcliffe Castle.  As she was leaving to retire, Riordan requested a private word with Rosamund and Alistair in his chambers, to work out their own strategy for taking down the Archdemon.  In keeping with the tenor of her week, Riordan's news was singularly unpleasant.  He revealed to the junior members of the Order that a Warden must die to end the Blight - come the end, a Warden was required to deliver the killing blow to the Archdemon and so give up his life.  It came as no surprise to Rose when Alistair volunteered, though it broke her heart again to hear him voice it.  Was he truly so miserable at the thought of being king that he wanted to die?  Were there other reasons he would choose to die?  She could not disguise her relief when Riordan claimed the duty for himself.  She left his chamber before Alistair had a chance to say something; she could practically feel him vibrating with the need to speak to her, and she had no desire to begin another argument over something neither of them could change.

Rosamund thought she could not possibly bear any more startling news that night, but respite was not to be hers.  Safe in her chamber, she thought, she was startled by Morrigan slipping out of the shadows near the fireplace.  The witch, her signature smirk in place, confessed that she had known the terrible fate of Wardens facing an Archdemon all along and had a solution to the problem.  Disregarding the fact that Morrigan had been keeping vital information secret from her for months, the details of her plan made Rosamund's blood run cold, and she listened in stunned silence as Morrigan explained a ritual that went against everything she had been taught by the Circle.

"Blood magic!" Rosamund spat, her fists clenched, sparks flaring in the air between them.  She felt a surge of shame and desire as she considered for the briefest moment agreeing with Morrigan’s ritual.

"Essentially, yes.”  Morrigan’s eye-roll spoke volumes for her opinion of Rosamund’s scruples.  “But think, you would not have to die, nor would Alistair, nor Riordan though I care little what becomes of them.  You could live and grow old with that witless man.  'Tis a simple favor, and all I ask -"

It was the wrong thing to say at exactly the wrong time, when her heart was so sore with grief she thought she might die from it.  Her anger and pride won out over any momentary selfishness she might have felt.  "I will not do this, Morrigan.  Nor will I ask Alistair to be complicit with this filthy ritual.  At any rate, I doubt very much he has any desire to speak with me at all anymore.  You may ask him yourself, if you wish, but I will not aid you."

"You are a fool!" Morrigan snapped.  "You would throw all your lives away because of a ridiculous lovers' quarrel."

"No!  I will die with my integrity intact because I did not succumb to the temptation of blood magic to save my own skin.  If you disagree, you may leave.  This discussion is done."  Morrigan stormed from the room, and Rose resisted the desire to throw a bolt of lightning after her.  They had never been friends, but she was certain the disagreement had ruined whatever amicable arrangement they had.  She knew, in the morning, that Morrigan would not be riding at her side into battle, and she did not care.  Even the thought of earning Morrigan's enmity could do nothing to frighten her now.  Grief had become fury.  She was ready to kill and even more ready to die.

 

*** _The Present_ ***

 

She killed and killed until her mana ran low and her arms ached and her head pounded.  The sun arced overhead, shining through the smoke and making the dead in the streets reek.  Her body count was so high she had given up keeping track.  The Horde seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of them; they had overrun Denerim, and she wasn't sure the city could be saved.  Black blood ran through the gutters, bodies littered the streets: Darkspawn, humans, elves, and dwarves.  She wasn't certain, but she thought she had spotted a few Qunari somewhere in the piles of corpses around them.  Onward through the city they went, seeking out the Darkspawn Generals she sensed in her bones; the sick-wrong feeling of the creatures intensified into a wrenching ache that signified truly powerful Darkspawn nearby.  Riordan didn't want these alphas coming to the aid of the Archdemon so they hunted and slew them.  Finally, the Generals vanquished, they arrived at Fort Drakon, weary, resigned, but determined to continue onward.  The tower shone in the midafternoon sun, the crowning glory of Denerim in spite of its dark reputation and the fact that it was now swarming with Darkspawn and draclings.  With a deep breath, her party plunged into the fracas, black blood flying in their wake.

When the courtyard was finally clear, she called a break.  She pulled food from her pack, though she had no appetite, and took a long draught from her water flask.  If she didn't eat, her mana wouldn't replenish, and the lyrium potions would start affecting her mind, making her see things that weren't there.  As she nibbled on trail biscuits Zevran sat beside her, stretching out his blood spattered legs and examining his gory blades as they rested on his knees.  Even covered in the innards of a hundred darkspawn, Zevran was a handsome man - handsome, flirtatious, and only ever a friend.  She had a brief, wistful moment to wonder what it might have been like if she had pursued Zevran's obvious interest instead of losing her heart to Alistair.  An exercise in futility if ever there was one.

"I can't help but notice you have been very silent today, my dear Warden.  It may be a strange question, considering we are knee-deep in corpses, but are you feeling well?"  He didn't meet her gaze, instead picking at a bit of gristle that had lodged between the blade and pommel.

Rosamund glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to determine his purpose.  The assassin had a way of making her spill her secrets in spite of herself, and, though she trusted him, she wasn't sure she wanted to share all the turmoil in her heart while they rested on the battlefield.  "I'll be fine, Zev.  No need to worry."

"Of course, if you are certain.  Please know, if I can do anything, you must let me help you."  He met her gaze then, and she felt like she might start crying.  His eyes filled with pity and he opened his mouth to respond, reaching out a hand toward her.

Fortunately, or perhaps not so much, the Archdemon chose that particular moment to assault the tower and wheeled over their heads, shrieking its fury and writhing in the air.

"Maker, look!  It's Riordan!" yelled Alistair, pointing into the air.  On the dragon's back, clinging to a wing by what looked like a blade, was a small figure in Warden blue and silver.  The Archdemon whipped its head back toward its wing, snapping at the human clinging there and causing its flight path to veer close to a series of sharp turrets.  With a desperate pump of wings that sent putrid wind rushing through the courtyard at the foot of the tower, the dragon launched itself to the observation deck at the top of Fort Drakon.  With that final wingbeat, the demon dislodged its unwelcome passenger.  Rosamund and her companions watched the figure fly through the air, arms wheeling as he plummeted down into the city.

In that moment Rosamund knew what would happen with all the certainty of a Fade-walker seeing glimpses of futures beyond the Veil.  That was the moment she knew she was going to die.  She could not let Alistair take the killing blow; nothing in heaven or on earth would keep her from protecting him to her final breath.  True, they both had to live long enough make it to the dragon, but if it came to a choice, it would be her.

"Come on!" she cried, slinging her pack over shoulder and hefting her staff.  "Riordan crippled the beast; we finish this atop Fort Drakon."

Oghren let out a bellow, and Alistair joined in, raising his sword to the sky and shouting, "For the Wardens!"  They charged into the tower, cutting through demons, darkspawn, and reanimated corpses.  Occasionally they encountered a band of their elven or dwarven allies beating back the Horde in the winding corridors of the tower.  As they progressed upward, their little troop increased in size until Rose was leading a miniature army through the halls of Fort Drakon.  The energy of the group was contagious; the dwarves started singing a battle song and the elves who weren't filling darkspawn full of arrows used their bowstrings to strum a rhythm along to the tune.  A group of Redcliff soldiers heard the ruckus and joined up, laughing and banging their swords on their shields.  Rosamund's heart swelled to think of their hope; as grave and impossible as their task seemed, this alliance against a common foe had brought together so many.  Weary beyond belief, she could still take step after step forward, tossing fire and lighting at her enemies, because her allies believed in her.  How could she do anything else but reward their faith with her own life?

Finally Rosamund and her forces reached the pinnacle of the tower.  Beyond the massive oak and iron doors, they would find the Archdemon.  She could hear the dragon shrieking its fury and felt the rumble of its movement through the flagstones.  The group paused to collect themselves in an open banquet hall, patching up injuries and tightening straps.  Rose took a final, long draught of the water in her flask, using a few drops to clear the dirt and soot and blood from her face.  She realized, in this brief respite, that she was shaking; the battle was taking its toll on her, and she was exhausted.  Her blood burned in her veins and her stomach wrapped itself in vicious knots - the call of the Archdemon was stronger than ever before.  Even awake she could hear words that were not quite language, see visions just beyond perception, every fiber of her being warred between obeying the Archdemon's commanding call and resisting the Taint in her blood.  It had never been so powerful before.  She closed her eyes, allowing her mind to wander, just a little, to flirt with the dragon's tantalizing voice.  It would be so easy to give in to the creature, to let its howling thirst for blood take over every last shred of her self.  She felt her physical body swaying to the ululation in her mind.

"Rose?  Rose!"  Alistair's voice, low and insistent, cut through the call, and she opened her eyes, still languid and dazed from the tempting music in her mind.  His face was right there, so close she could smell him, his particular scent of man and soap and cedar beneath the filth, the sweat, the blood.  His eyes, shadowed with his own fatigue, were open to her - all his love, his concern, everything that had won her body and soul to him, shining through as he searched her face.

"I'm fine," she replied, and her voice sounded drugged to her own ears.  She drew in a sharp breath, clearing her mind a little.  She must have swayed because his hands went to her shoulders, steadying her.

"I wish you would stop saying that."  He scowled at her.

"What?"

"You're clearly not fine.  You're about to fall over."  He let go of her shoulders and took a step back from her.  "Maybe...Rose, maybe you should stay here.  Let me go, with the army."

Rose glared at him, snapping, "Don't be absurd."  She stood, swaying only a little, and poked her finger into his chest, her scaled gloves clinking against his plate armor.  "I started this bloody war, and I'm bloody well going to finish it!"

He smiled, a small, sad gesture, and said, "What about the final blow?"  He looked so lost, so sad in that moment.  All she wanted to do was raise up on her toes and kiss him; a sweet, gentle kiss to reassure him and chase the shadows from his eyes.  His dear face was lined with exhaustion and filth, and she could see her own heartbreak mirrored in his eyes.  They both knew the impossibility of their task.  She knew he wanted to take the blow, to spare her and to escape his fate, but she knew that she could never go on living in a world that did not have him in it as well.

"We'll jump off that bridge when we get to it," she replied, her voice surprisingly firm.  "We've got to survive long enough to kill the damned thing, remember?"

He sighed.  "Fair enough."  Drawing his sword, he sketched a half bow toward the gates.  "Shall we, my lady Warden?"  His voice carried through the hall, and the little army they had collected stilled, their attention entirely on her.

Oghren let out his gravelly chortle, fingering his great-axe fondly.  "Let's give that beastie somethin' to chew on, Warden!"

Rose managed a grin for Oghren and clapped him on his shoulder.  In a low, strong voice, she said, "For Ferelden."

The elves, dwarves, and men assembled with her little party took up the cry.  "For Ferelden!  For Ferelden!"

With her staff in her left hand and a fireball growing in her right she marched through the doors.

***

Had hours passed?  Days?  How long had she been running, dodging, fighting on this smoky tower?  The dead lay everywhere, darkspawn piled on elves piled on the shrieking vermin the Horde used as cannon fodder all atop dwarves and men.  There was hardly a surface that wasn't covered in corpses.  So many people had died to give the remaining two Wardens in Ferelden the smallest hope of killing the Archdemon that plagued their land.

The dragon lay in a heap, its massive body heaving with exhaustion, countless wounds leaking black blood onto the red flagstones atop Fort Drakon.  Its tattered wings lay at awkward angles across its back, all four of its limbs hamstringed, attempting to shift its bulk away from its tormentors.  The beast was finally crippled, and it was time for a Warden to take the final blow.  Rosamund eyed the thing warily, meeting its baleful gaze.  She felt the call more strongly than ever before, and also an awareness, as if the beast had a mind like her own and was taunting her with her own impending death.  She could not say for sure, but she suspected the dragon knew that its demise rested in her hands.  The thought sent a chill down her spine.  A steady growl emanated from the scaly creature, and it snapped its teeth whenever any of the Ferelden forces drew too close to it.  The darkspawn forces had fled when the beast went down, as if getting away from their master would somehow save them.  With nothing left to fight, the men and dwarves and elves and mages that had helped to bring down the Archdemon, those that had survived at least, gathered to look at their enemy.

Like the survivors, her companions had definitely seen better days.  Oghren had a gash through his scalp and walked with a limp.  At some point during the afternoon one side of his great-axe had shattered and he had taken to sinking the remaining spike of metal into limbs and heads.  Zevran held his left arm close to his side.  She had closed the massive messy claw marks made by a Shriek that had taken advantage of his exhaustion, but it would take more healing magic than Rosamund had to repair the arm completely.  Zevran was gray under the brown of his skin.  His beautiful hair hung filthy and limp around his face, and he looked ancient and exhausted, as if he might fall over at any moment.  Rosamund knew the feeling.  Yet when she met his eyes, he gave her a saucy grin and a salute with his good arm.  She smiled back, an ache in her heart for what she was giving up.

Wonderful, glorious Alistair, battered and bloody, plate dented and sword chipped, driven past the point of all endurance, and ready to die to save his land and his love, surprisingly unscathed by the scores of foes he had taken down.  She knew he would feel the battle tomorrow when every limb and joint was sore, and all the bruises had come through.  She could see the subtle trembling of his arms that betrayed how much pain he was in, even now.  He stood at her side, glaring at the Archdemon lying on the observation deck. 

Rose, using her staff like a crutch, began to walk toward the beast.  One particularly massive hurlock had made it past the dwarves acting as her personal guard and had sliced her thigh from knee to hip.  The wound was not deep, but it burned and ached, and she didn't like to put pressure on it.  She could move well enough to end the Archdemon, however, and it was time.

"Rose, wait." Alistair.  Chivalrous, noble, foolish man.  Her heart ached from loving him, from the guilt of what she was going to do to him.  But this was so much bigger than the two of them.  Perhaps, a few days ago, she had wanted him to suffer, to punish him for the things he had said about his duty and his obligation.  Now...after watching him lead an army, rally women and men to his cause, acting like the king he was born to be, now she knew that it was always meant to be her at this moment on this tower facing this foe.  He would remember her, honor her memory, but he would live and lead his country into a greater age than it had ever known, even when she was gone.

"Alistair," she replied.  Her voice was a ragged remnant of what it had been.  Between the smoke and the yelling, she could barely make herself heard.

"Please, Rose, I have to be the one to do this."  He sheathed his sword and rested his hands on her shoulders.  Sometime during the fight he had lost his gauntlets, and his fingers were streaked with blood and grime.  He placed one trembling hand along her jaw and smoothed his thumb beneath her lips.  "Maker help me, I love you."  A tear streaked down his face, tracing a clean path over his cheek.  He bent to her to capture her lips in a kiss.  She opened to him and he deepened the kiss until she was clinging to him and was growing lightheaded with the need to breathe.  She poured every last miniscule scrap of longing and desperate loving she had into the kiss, her fingers threaded through his hair and holding him close to her.  When he finally pulled away to meet her gaze, she realized she had tears streaming down her face.  His lips quirked in a crooked, maudlin smile and he wiped her tears away, placing a kiss on her forehead.

She returned the smile, saying, "I love you, Alistair, more than words could ever say.  Please, forgive me, my love."  Her hand still on his neck she cast a glyph onto his skin, locking him into place.  She let fall her staff and drew the sword from his sheath.  One step back, and another.  Though he could not move or speak, his eyes filled with panic and pained betrayal.

"Good bye," she whispered, tears threatening to overwhelm her.  Her vision grew blurry.  She turned from him, then, hobbling toward the dragon rumbling its fury.  The gathered warriors began to cheer, their hero approaching for the killing blow, unknowing that their hero was about to leave them forever.  As she moved, her leg loosened up and she was able to jog toward the beast.  The sword was too heavy for her, but she only needed one blow to kill the thing.  The Taint would take care of the important part.

She raised the sword, running toward the Archdemon.  Riordan had told them - was it really only a few nights ago? - that a sword at the base of the skull would be enough to finish the job.  The dragon saw her coming, raised its head and snapped its jagged teeth at her.  She dodged, stumbling a bit as the sword threw off her balance.  Luckily the dragon was as slow and tired as she was, this last defiance hardly an obstacle.  She leapt, brought the blade down, perfectly on target.  The flesh just behind the horns and ridges of the creature's head was unexpectedly soft, the blade sliding home like cutting into a soft cheese.  Rosamund felt a jarring pain in her arms as the blade found bone and lodged, but her hands were bound by some power beyond herself to the sword.  She had a brief moment to glance back at Alistair, frozen in place, shock and fear and agony shaping his dear features, changing him into a person she barely recognized, and then the whole world went white.

Blinding, screaming, agonizing power shot through every limb, every bone, every pore of her body.  She threw her head back and felt herself scream.  She heard nothing, saw nothing, everything was murderous sensation as she felt the Old God’s soul where it had settled, twisted around the dragon's heart, corrupting the beast; felt it unfurl black tattered shadow-wings and try to flee its dying host.  The soul could not escape.  Because of the Grey Warden Taint in Rosamund's boiling blood, the Old God was pulled from its mad rush to find another darkspawn host to inhabit and was pulled into her.  Too much, oh Maker and Andraste help her, too much pain, too much everything, another soul, an entire being fighting to take control of her body and mind, but she had to fight, she had to master it, she would not let the vile thing take over, Maker, make it stop, she would do anything to end it, just end it end everything end -

And then the Old God’s soul was disintegrating within her, falling to ashy pieces as the modified Taint in her blood abolished the soul from existence.  The agony went on and on, she was disintegrating, the destruction of the Archdemon’s essence destroying her in the process; her limbs locked in place, braced on the dragon, holding the sword, her head and back bowed, she lost all connection to reality, all of everything she knew was centered around the ordeal within her.  She burned, the Old God burned, the remnants of what had been the dragon before her corruption burned.

When she knew she could burn no more, when her mind was at the point of breaking, everything stopped.  The light, the power, the burning, the rampant chaos all stopped.  Her body went limp, and she fell.

***

Alistair could not move.  Maker help him, she had tricked him, frozen him somehow in spite of his Templar training, and _she was going to die_.  He struggled against the spell, trying to recall every trick he had ever been taught to break a mage's hold.  Nothing worked.  He was completely tapped out.  He watched, every muscle in his body straining against the hold as she lifted his sword into the air and charged forward, stumbling slightly.  The Archdemon reared its head and snapped at her, and Rose dodged, badly, the sword slipping in her grip.  She turned toward the downed beast, and he could see her profile, fierce, beautiful, and sad.  That sadness was all his fault.  What an ass he'd been, to say the things he had.  Never see her again?  Maker, what a fool he was, to think he could ever live without her.  No duty on earth could possibly be more important than the love he had for her.  Now he had no choice.  She was going to die and it was all his fault. 

Rose leapt then, raising the blade over her head.  Alistair had a brief moment of appreciation for the perfect arc and form of her body as she delivered the killing blow to the Archdemon.  The dragon shrieked a final defiance, and the world exploded in white light.

Alistair closed his eyes against the painful brightness.  Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he flexed his fingers and waited.

***

Falling, landing, so much pain.  Rosamund couldn't move, could barely think.  Apparently, dying hurt like all the demons in the Fade were dragging her broken body over glass to the Black City.  And then to the gates of the Fade.  And then back again.  Ten thousand times.

Did dead people think sarcastic things about how much it hurt to die?  She suspected this was not something one was supposed to do when dying.  She was sure she would have read about it somewhere.  She knew she had read something about people attempting to think pious thoughts as they died.  Alistair was always teasing her about carrying around too many books.  Alistair.  Maker, Alistair, frozen, furious.  Perhaps she was dead, after all, because he wasn't yelling at her for being unbelievably, unforgivably stupid.

She opened her eyes.  She was surprised she could open them.  Then, surprised that she was surprised, she scolded herself for cyclical thinking and tried to see something.  Nothing.  Well, not exactly nothing.  There was a sort of grayness, moving back and forth, sort of rolling.  She felt a desire to rub at her eyes but her hands refuse to cooperate.  Dead, then?  Broken almost certainly.

Her body moved; not the pieces she was trying to move.  Her shoulders lifted, her head fell back then was raised forward.  A voice at her ear.

"Maker, no.  Please, no.  Rose.  Maker, not my Rose."

"Al...Ali..."  Andraste's ass, was that her voice?  Breathy, rough, barely there.  She remembered screaming.  Damn it, pious thoughts.

"Rose?  Love?  Rose, please, Rose, please."  Something on her face.  A hand?  Something else, wet.  "Please, love, please say something else."

She opened her eyes.  _Actually_ opened them this time.  She could see his eyes, so that blur must be hair, and a mouth, there?

"Alistair."  She coughed, and the force sent racking pain through her entire body, down to her toes, up through her fingertips, and something tore inside.  Not supposed to do that. 

"Don't die on me!  Maker, Rose, you can't die."  She saw his face turn away, to someone she couldn't see he bellowed, "Fetch a healer! NOW!"  She felt his yelling thrumming through her.  It hurt.

"Al...I..."  She had to say this.  She had to tell him.  She knew he knew, but if she didn't say it he might forget and she couldn't go to the Maker's side without knowing he knew.

"Don't talk, Rose, we have help coming.  Just hold on.  Please, love, don't go where I can't follow you."  She thought she felt her arm move, her fingers, there were other fingers.  Squeezing.  It hurt.  She wanted him to never let go.

She blinked her eyes, made an effort to focus which made her head hurt, swallowed, tasted blood.  She was freezing.  Was that why he was shaking so much?  Had it grown cold?  She smelled blood and smoke.  She missed the smell of roses.  He had given her the last rose in Lothering, because it was her name, because it was beautiful, because it made him think of her...he thought she might like it.  Perhaps the Maker would let her have roses.

Alistair, she said.  No, he couldn't hear that.  Had to use lips and a voice.  "Alistair."  His face was less clear, the edges of his face were in shadows.  He moved closer, and she could see his eyes, the depth of the brown, the sparks of gold, the small lines at the corners, his long yellow lashes.

"Yes, love, I'm here.  I'm here.  Always, I'll be here."  His hand was in her hair now.  She smelled cedar.  Maker, it hurt.

"Alistair."  She pulled breath into her lungs, more tearing.  So much pain, burning, everything inside her must be ashes now.  She was not a person anymore, only a charred husk.  "Alistair."

"Rose, no.  Rose, you can't.  Please.  You can't."  His voice broke, a whisper in a throat tight with grief.  His tears were falling on her face.  He was so close she could see them forming in his eyes.

"Love you.  Alistair."  A breath, not a voice.  He made a noise that was not words.  It hurt.

She couldn't see his face, the shadow was in the way.  She had to tell him something.  It was important.  Everything hurt.  She hoped the Maker would do something about this dreadful smell.

***

The monument to the Hero of Ferelden in Redcliffe Village is unusual.  A massive statue of a griffin at rest with raised wings, it looks up toward the ruin of a windmill when seen from one angle, and watches Redcliff Castle across Lake Calenhad from another.  No statue like this exists anywhere in Thedas.  Every year the villagers hold a celebration and a vigil for the brave woman who gave her life to end the Fifth Blight, marking the day of her death with songs, acts of valor, and a great feast before lighting candles and standing silently at her monument in the moments leading up to midnight.  After all the revelers have departed for the night and the square is dark, it has been said that a lone figure in a hooded cloak approaches the monument.  This person says nothing, but stands for a long time staring up into the griffin's face.  Then, as if signaled by something, the person kneels between the griffin's feet and touches the plaque with Warden Amell's name engraved thereon.  Before leaving, the figure places a single rose, dusky pink in hue, upon the griffin's right forepaw.  No one dares approach the figure, nor says anything, but it is whispered that the figure is King Alistair paying homage to the hero for all she was to him and to his country.

**Author's Note:**

> I played through DA:O a while back, and I thought I had everything sorted out with Rose and Alistair - he would be king, she would be his loving mistress, and eventually, when the country was stable, they would run away together. This was my head-canon. Then, after the Landsmeet, Alistair had the audacity to break up with Rose! A whole speech about duty and faithfulness and how it was for the best. I couldn't believe it. I was livid. :) So, naturally, I had to punish Alistair and decided to sacrifice Rose to the Archdemon. Only, when you play the game and take Alistair along in the final battle, the guy actually steals the kill and doesn't let you go out in a blaze of glory. This story is how it went down in my head. I may actually write another version in which Alistair dies at the end, and Rose's reaction - I have a pretty good sense of how it would play out. We'll see.


End file.
